*Nothing against Texas. Really. I almost feel sorry for them and their pitching. This is a poem about George Bush. Nothing against George Bush. Really. Not really. But it's actually a poem about the way the characters in the Cormac McCarthy book "Cities of the Plain" speak. It's hard to have opinions/judgments, especially ones that are bigoted and unfair. SF is a city that is known for its tolerance, a value that I try to identify with. Texas is a vast and great state, but their baseball team is not playing well at the moment, and the moment happens to be the World Series. I feel bad for Nolan Ryan. I feel bad the bagel I just ate. We read a Tao Lin book in my creative writing class so I'm writing a little bit like him. I'm a little concerned that if the Giants win without the Rangers playing well they will have nothing to play for next season, the lesson that if things come too easily things are harder to appreciate. The pitching staff is so young. Not that it's easy to be a major league pitcher but sudden success can be difficult to deal with. After you get to the top what else is there to play for? Whatever. "I hate it when you say that."

On Tuesday morning on my way to work, hopping on my bike in the pre-daylight savings time fall, overcast and dark, about eight o'clock a big black bird dropped a nut from forty feet up and then swooped down to eat from the cracked nut. Smart bird. Today I watched a juvenile hawk get swarmed by a team of black birds, perched on top of a light pole. It looked away to say something to my roommate, something about the hawk. I looked back and it was gone. It's hard to imagine death from a bird, or a team of birds. Bird death. Bird Death 2. Bird Death 3: Escape from the Light Pole. Fini. Music. Credits.